Come One, Come All: Part Deux
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: 'He'd let the exilaration of gliding on thermals lull him into believing he was invincible.' Wing!Shep whump/angst. Sequel to COCA. Enjoy! XD
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** - there once was an ugly duckling, with feathers all stubby and... black! Well, more of a very dark brown, really, with a reddish glint and a rather fetching iridescent, purple-green colorshift to match his purty hair an' eyes! Aw. Whaddya mean, it doesn't scan? Pfftht, pfftht, get outta town! LOL! :P

oooOOOooo

Jaan lay supine on the cold, rock slab exam table in some dark cavern, waiting in dread silence as had been instilled in him over the years, his wrists and ankles and this time even his waist and neck restrained, his wings pinned down at three strategic points each; pierced through both his faux-elbow and faux-scapula tendons - and just below his faux-wrist, at the juncture of his sorry, scraggy flight feathers and vestigial thumb and finger bones.

It hurt, though his current owners most likely didn't get it. They never did. To them, wings had no nerve endings. They were just like hair, to be tugged and plucked and tugged some more. Oh, he'd put up a worthy fight as usual, though it had cost him what little strength he'd kept in reserve; and he now spent the remaining chunk of his fight or flight energy numbing himself mentally and physically, practically watching his limited coinage clinking away through gaps in the rock face.

This sucked. He didn't dare move, for fear of ripping through his chronically damaged wings, or even for fear of being clipped. Now, that was a constant threat. He'd been clipped more than once, sometimes down to the quick, and his attempted escapes after a clipping generally resulted in him landing on his ass, and staring down the tiller of a crossbow. The beatings that generally ensued made him cringe to this day, and subsequent threats of amputation still haunted his dreams to the extent that he often woke up screaming.

He trembled. There was no way he could live without his wings. None. He often dreamed of flying, of soaring, only to somehow end up bogged down in mud, entangled in vines and detritus, his pursuers never far behind, clomping their way towards him, wolves set loose then slavering at his neck, letting him know with a snarl and a glower that if it wasn't for their masters, he would be instant kibble. He'd pretty much clammed up every time after a nightmare like that, which sometime brought about even more beatings for being dull-witted.

Escape attempts before an imminent clipping only meant he would be shot down, just as he'd claimed the sky. It was worth it. Mostly. Even if he'd managed to escape his captors, his tormentors, there was nowhere for him to go, though the sky beckoned him like a fickle lover. But what was the point? He would be alone. Always was, always would be. He could maybe fully claim the sky, but he could never, ever share it with another living soul. After all, he was a freak.

Yeah, well. So be it. Jaan sniffed, and wiped away stray tears with the heel of his hand.

They had named him several times over the years, though he was more often than not just plain It. He vaguely remembered his birth name, something raw and weeping to hang onto, though it had transmuted over the course of time.

Jo'uhn.

Yeah, that was it, though that didn't carry well with many of his owners, especially those who didn't have a J in their alphabet. He'd been Zhahn, J'n, and even Yaaghaaghaagh by some sloth-like creature that articulated even slower than it moved. Wow. Easy pickings. Performing for them was a blast. All he had to do was clamber up and down some trees, over and under, and swing, maybe even jump for joy, do some push-ups, some sit-ups, dazzling them with his own natural speed and agility or even his exercise regimen, and the crowd… absolutely almost didn't fall asleep before he was done. They could barely track him visually in any case. Breakneck stuff for these guys. Yeah, those were the good ol' days, when he did nothing but build up his strength and recuperate… in - Between.

He struggled against being creeped out by the latest species that had claimed their sick ownership of him. Moles. Damn dirty moles. Stocky, two-legged creatures about a head shorter than him with sloping brows, beady eyes, long snouts, sharp claws, and brown, velvety fur.

He was deep underground and in deep shit. Crap. Now he was even further away from the stars. He had to keep his hopes up. Stay positive. The one mole, who'd chosen him above a cool bunch of prancers, seemed kind enough, concerned even, but the other, pissy-looking one, would be after his blood if he didn't do whatever might be required of him. He knew that look of old. There was a definite glee in his eyes. Yep, that mole was a total bad-ass.

As he lay there, freezing his own ass off, chest heaving in anticipation, Jaan reluctantly recalled how he was once kept in an underwater, air-filled tank by some bunch of sentient, telepathic sharks, and sent to the surface either to relieve himself or to retrieve tree rats for them, a long, sturdy chain clamped around his ankle. This he willingly did, as those damn sea monsters had a nasty look in their eyes that told him he'd be their next meal if he didn't come up with the goods. It wasn't that the ocean lacked bounty. Far from it. It was more to do with variety. And he was said variety. They'd fed him fish and seaweed, which was fine by him. It even fattened him up after almost a year with nothing but foraged fruit and nuts, supplemented in desperation by grass, when he was owned by egg-laying pigs who kept him around to muck out their nursery, and tend their grubby little hatchlings. After being tossed nothing but hay for days on end during their weaning, even those piglets looked like they tasted good. He'd then accidently cracked open a newly laid piglet egg when he fain- passed out on it, slurped up the contents even as they leaked away into the mire, and had incurred a thrashing that almost had him wishing he'd never need to stand up on two legs ever again. In fact, he didn't even take the time or trouble to haul himself upright.

He woke up in a sale pen.

By then he'd craved meat pretty much in any form, and his purchase by those smart sharks, though terrifying, gave him enough sustenance and energy by way of primary protein and fish oil to attempt an escape. He'd used the tree rat hunt to eat fruit on the run, and to search for rocks in the vicinity, to break the chain, finally stumbling upon one after some hundred forays, and hauling it back to the tree by his point of ingress/egress on the shore. He planned on revisiting the rock on his very next foray, and hightail it out of there. Trouble was, the greedy sharks hadn't appreciated his delay in returning with their lunch, and had stuck him half-submerged in a tank complete with electric eel. He didn't think anything could hurt that bad, but he was wrong. It'd latched onto his chest, leaving him with a feeding scar just above his sternum. They'd sent in a disciplinarian to chew up his wings when he dared to stare up at them in defiance. Then they sold him on. He guessed they'd grown tired of their tree rat diet, and had gone back to their fishy staple for a while.

In a nasty twist of fate, Jaan was subsequently bought by the very tree rats he'd been forced to hunt. They merely made his life a misery. He was of no real use to them as they were adept at finding their own food, but they weren't so hot at providing their own entertainment. He'd been cheap because of his then useless wings, and had been traded by the sea-going gluttons for a one-shot meal of some spicy snake stew laced with extract of prune. He later heard they'd crapped their own watery habitat for days on end. He guessed vengeance was sweet.

But short-lived.

He had nothing left to him then bar lick his wounds, and take whatever punishment the tree rats cared to mete out. It usually involved being randomly hauled out of his cramped cage, and beaten senseless. On sunny days, he'd flap his wings, dash off some aerial stunts, building up strength, though as ever his flights were hampered by a chain around his ankle. It entertained the tree rats, keeping most of them off his case. When he was lucid, it gave him time to think.

Mostly, when it rained or froze or the days were short, he would think morbid thoughts as he sat in a miserable huddle, his wings wrapped around him protectively, and hope to wake up dead some day. When the sun came out, warming his battered body, he would spread his wings, and daydream as he basked in those welcome, warming rays, imagining himself… Elsewhere.

But where was this Elsewhere? Where had he come from? He remembered nothing beyond having been content once. Happy. Surrounded by love and comfort, even if he was a freak. Whoever they were, they'd accepted him for what he was. Yeah, in his dreams. His memory didn't serve him well, and he'd maybe conjured up endless welcome images, to the point where he no longer knew truth from falsehood. He imagined the thwap of many wings, the joy of flight and the exuberance at being above the land with his own kind. He didn't dare hope that the sound and sight might be a memory and not just a flight of fancy, that he wasn't alone after all. He berated himself for wishing freakdom on others, just so he wouldn't be the only one.

Jaan remembered he'd done something seriously, incredibly stupid when he was a fledgling. From far above, he'd seen something flailing before some weird vertical well, and had broken some imagined formation. It was a creature in distress. It went under. Or - through. But - he couldn't let it drown!

Jaan dived in, only to come out into a dismal, frozen wasteland and not a body of water after all, and was instantly wrestled to the ground by a dozen lizards pretty much twice his size. Where had the water gone? He bitterly recalled that the well was in reality only a thin slice of water; a shimmering, blue mirage. He'd let the exhilaration of gliding on thermals lull him into believing he was invincible.

He'd been dragged through endless vertical wells after that, and the years had shambled by. There would be no rescue. Maybe the creatures he once lived with were happy to shake off their wayward burden, wishing they'd exposed him at birth. Maybe they'd shoved him through the well on purpose to either sink or swim rather than peck him to death as an outcast. Whichever way, he was no longer their problem. He had to save himself. He'd been trying and failing ever since.

Jaan was shaken from his sorry musings by the excruciating clatter of claws on rock bed. How solid was this place?

"Sluice it down."

Uh oh. The bad-ass mole. He was ordering around a female.

"Pim Waarul, I should like to clean it up while it remains docile. Gently. It's hurt, and weak from lack of sustenance, and possibly even a chronic sickness. You must have realized by now it wasn't treated well. Most likely it never has been. It's up to us Kandians to - "

"It. Refused. Worms. Worms! What kind of creature turns its nose up at that kind of fare? It's been spoiled. I want the thing to know its place. You can fix its injuries once it's clean, but it can't get clean with you dabbing at it in that prissy manner of yours. Oh, and I want it performance-ready by ninth candle."

"You can't do that to it! And I can only surmise that it cannot stomach worms per its species or per its continued illness! You are too quick to second guess, Waarul; too quick to judge!"

The female grabbed a fistful of mole chest fur, and twisted. Jaan winced.

"Why my littermate threw in his lot with you, I shall never know. He is a good-hearted soul, even if his allegiance is misplaced. He missed his vocation. He might well have been a vet like me, and we might have been partners, he and I. I can only surmise you have some hold over him that I have yet to discern."

The one called Waarul inhaled sharply, then growled. Uh oh. Was the lack of polite address a slight upon him? Or was it the female's insightfulness? Jaan cringed, and looked away, hoping to avoid bearing the brunt of the mole's ire. That's the way it usually went with infighting. Take it out on the unfortunate slaves by beating the crap out of them. He almost wished for the once harmonious lifestyle of the seals of Mardol. Life was weird but easy then, until the walruses invaded their territory. Then Jaan wasn't quite the cute pet they all loved to caress with their gentle flippers. Gentle? Hah! Tell that to his sorry carcass. They took it out on him, whupping his ass and then some, taking their flippers to him like paddles, until he bled all over their pristine, white sandy beach, which irked them even more.

When the sea lions took sides, turning the tide of war, the seals sold him on to buy much needed weapons. That was the only time he actually met something like his own kind. The Horgo. They weren't winged, but at least he could force himself to feel like he belonged for a while. They smiled and shed tears. As did he. Wow. It was a first for him, but not for them. They didn't care that he had feelings. He didn't want to think about what they did to him just for fun. Not now, not ever. They were especially creative. It made his entire body ache and jar with the memory of it. He never wanted to see another screwdriver ever.

Then came the fluorescent, nocturnal Vithian bees. He'd been pathetically hopeful there after the distaster with the Horgo. They'd had something in common. Wings. But he couldn't understand their orders, their constant, angry buzzing, and he stood there, wide-eyed, looking and feeling like an idiot. He'd fumbled in the dark, unable to get any kind of handle on his duties. So they'd stung him repeatedly in his upper arms and thighs. His limbs had been useless for days.

Then they sold him on.

Every time caused him to quake, though he maintained his defiance as best he could. What else did he own? Not a single, solitary thing. Not even his own body. No, wait! Whatever he was, he still owned his own wretched heart and soul. His memories? Not so much. They'd been twisted. Wrecked. Pretty much beyond recognition.

His current owners continued to chitter and squeal in the background. Whatever. Jaan kept quiet. Talking made no difference. The fact that he was prone to surly outbursts only exacerbated his situation, making his owners believe him to be cunning. Which he was. It just never got him anywhere. He wished he hadn't opened his fat mouth here in front of these moles. And now, the male was about to strike the female, and he, Jaan, couldn't do a thing to help her.

"Sow!"

"Worm!"

"Ah, does that not make me delectable, Pim Karrowin?"The male licked his lips.

"Then allow me to rephrase, _Pim_ Waarul. Wormcast!"

A growl began deep in the male's throat, and reverberated around the cavern. Jaan clenched his teeth, his eyelids, his fists, and just about anything else remotely clenchable. This was not going to end well. That thought was corroborated by the familiar crack of a whip.

"Release it, then. I intend to drive it into the waterfall."

"Alone? Where, pray, is my littermate? He was meant to be here by seventh candle!"

"He lies drunk on the tavern floor, wench! Now do you finally comprehend the hold I have over him? I bought him years ago! I funded one of his many sordid habits! He is mortgaged to me! I own your witless littermate as much as I own this miserable thing, and whatever is his, is mine! Whatever he craves, I dispense! Where is he now? When here you stand, so vehemently defending his ill-chosen purchase! Was he not supposed to assist you? Answer me that!"

"I - "

"Whatever he loves, I provide or deny! And I choose to deny him this avian!"

"Why, Waarul? Why?"

"He long ago denied me access to something I yet desire, citing me unworthy."

Jaan watched fearfully as the male scent-marked every damn surface, even the slab he was lying on.

"Of what, Pim Waarul? Of what?"

"You, Karrowin. You."

So, now he was some pawn in some mole tryst? Jaan was spent. Even lying there drained him. It sucked. He felt himself being unbuckled, being yanked up by one arm, then being flung onto the rock bed. Ow! That jarred his wrists and knees, sending a jolt all the way to the tips of his wings. He flapped them, lifting himself a fraction and taking the pressure off his other four limbs. He barely had the strength to maintain even a brief hover.

His wings were shot. He knew it, he bet they knew it, too. Their toy was broken. Despite the prospect of ending up clean for once, he couldn't move his sorry ass towards that waterfall wherever it was to save himself from a thrashing. Mentally he was prepared for whatever came his way, but physically, he'd never felt so bad. Something was wrong. His head was spinning. His limbs were quaking. His wings were juddering. Was he sick? He couldn't afford to get sick.

_Aw, crap._

Jaan sank to the floor.

oooOOOooo

**A/N** - heads up - our boy is extra speshul...

oooOOOooo


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** - all through the winter in his lonely clump of weed… ;-D

oooOOOooo

Skwillin staggered towards the veterinary quarters, struggling to stay upright as the walls undulated all around him, threatening to cave in on him. He banged first into one wall, then the other, shaking his head with each involuntary full-body impact in an effort to rouse himself. He felt sick and dizzy. Why, he'd only downed one single solitary self-indulgent drink in the tavern. Cinnamon worm slushy with a dash of honey instead of gin, though he was tempted as ever to imbibe. So what was happening to him? Were the worms off? He didn't think so. Pim Tarmiul was too shrewd a housekeeper to let anything like that happen. His reputation would be at stake.

Skwillin frowned. Then gasped. Waarul! He saw his partner's wicked paw in this. Waarul rarely bought him a drink, if ever, and Skwillin had been pleasantly surprised when he'd splurged. Waarul had been in high spirits, had finally quit banging his whip menacingly against his leg, and Skwillin had let his guard down, had concluded that Waarul meant no harm. Not to him, nor to their latest acquisition.

Jaan.

How could he have been so stupid? So naive? His partner had lulled him, and had laced his drink. Most likely when he'd gone to take a leak. What other explanation was there? He'd woken up outside the tavern, sprawled out in the main thoroughfare like some drunken Fromian cockroach, lying in a pool of his own vomit.

It was growing late, already approaching eighth candle. He was supposed to have joined his littermate to help treat his Jaan at seventh. He'd promised to help soothe it while she tended it. Fetch and carry for her. Fine by him. He really couldn't argue with that, and found himself looking forward to working alongside her. He knew now he'd made the wrong career choice, much to his chagrin.

The poor avian had been sorely abused. Probably for most of its life. He knew that now, to his utter sorrow. He'd decided against the charcoaling he'd formerly proposed, though he had several intricate full-body tattoo designs in mind for it, should it live.

He shoved that thought aside. It seemed pointless now. Somehow, he didn't think his Jaan would be with them for very much longer, one way or another. Waarul was spoiling for a fight, a confrontation, but for the life of him, he couldn't think what had riled him so. What had he done? Unless… No! Surely Waarul couldn't still hold that against him? It was ancient history. Wasn't it?

Karrowin. Waarul had slyly worked his way up to this, and had finally discovered a way to hurt him. The partnership founded upon a drink and a pawshake in that very tavern many years ago had been a sham all along.

Skwillin sighed, gained the entrance, and peered in.

"Karr?" he croaked. "Where's - "

"Waarul and his cronies have your avian. I couldn't stop them. I am so, so sorry, Skwill."

Skwillin found his littermate in a miserable heap, clutching her head in both hands. Never had he felt so bad for her, felt so close to her, but now wasn't the time to wax maudlin. He had to find his avian. He realized he really didn't give a skink's rump about the damn, ailing circus. It was over. He was heartily sick of it all. He would send the plate-spinning geckos back to their desert planet, the juggling meerkats off into the savannah, the ice-skating cattle out to pasture, preferably with access to a frozen pond during the winter months. As for those axolotl clowns - those he'd send to the depths from whence they came. They creeped him out big time. Imagine being capable of reproduction without ever properly reaching adulthood? There was something essentially very, very wrong about that. As for the maoras - he'd send those vicious, brainless carnivores off to a Wraith-infested planet, and good riddance to both.

"You hurt?" he whispered.

Karrowin snorted.

"He struck me about my head with his closed fist, but I fare well enough. It's not that bad. I should know." She gave a knowing nod. "Vet?" She indicated herself from head to toe with a flick of her claws, a wry smile on her face. "Not much difference to being a doctor."

"Hah! Karr?"

"Still here."

"I have to stop him. Jaan - I think it's intelligent. Forgive my heresy, but I honestly believe it's not a mimic!"

"And only for that you would do no harm? What about the rest of them? The ones who cannot think on our level? All life is precious, Skwill. Have you really never noticed I only eat truffles and never worms, and have not done so since reaching puberty? And your Jaan's silence has paradoxically proven it was - is! - most definitely not a mimic. Those would babble inanely at being hauled away in chains by their front paws. This one was - stoical. Resigned. Silent." She paused. "Save it. Him. It's a male."

"You checked?"

"Skwillin? Wake up! Finally! Just - go. I'll be right behind you with my medical kit. I just need a moment."

She winced, then looked up through huge, twinkling eyes. Whoa. It was little wonder his sorry partner had fallen for her.

"Waarul is heading for the underground waterfall. He plans to dunk him, but I fear he is too sick to survive even that. As for whether he truly is a male or not, your avian's wrap wore away from his body leaving him exposed."

oooOOOooo

Jaan heard a steady scraping sound, along with an occasional skeleton-jolting clank. The clank reverberated throughout his bones, but the scraping sound was joined by a scraping of another sort. Of the skin and flesh from his body. This was it. The end of the line. He was being skinned alive! They wanted to use his pelt, sparse though it was. What would he end up as? A bowl? A cup? A piss pot? He expected to be upright for treatment such as this, but he was flat to the floor, being shredded cruelly against rock and gravel.

Grated.

The tugging sensation began at his wrists, dragging the rest of him with it. What, so not just the skin off his back? The feathers off his wings? They clearly planned to use every last scrap of him. He decided to let it be. He had no more fight left in him. He reckoned it was about time anyways. He prayed to the stars that his end would be quick. That if nothing else was left him, his body parts would be put to halfway decent use. He had hoped, briefly, that the softer partner might have cared for him, at least for a while. He'd told it to go to Hell.

Many owners had claimed they loved him. So, what else was new? They still beat him and sold him on when they tired of him or found a cute, furry replacement, so why let his guard down now? Believe for one moment that he was wanted? No-one wanted a freak around for long in case freakdom was contagious.

He heard the crack of that whip. What, this wasn't enough? Was he supposed to help them drag him to his death? Yet the pissy partner didn't strike him. Not even once. What gives? He was maybe that bad off already, huh. Crap.

He felt what was left of him being tipped into the rending vat. But instead of the fatal shock of searing heat, he bore the shock of intense cold. And he was still alive! What was with that?

He was now fully submerged. So, they planned on drowning him instead? Was he back with the sharks? After a wing chewing, that was their next favorite punishment. Plunge his face under water, take him to the brink, then rip his head up by his hair to the surface, gasping, only to have the cycle repeated amidst a frenzy. The agony of drowning wasn't in that final intake of water into the lungs, it was in the holding on, the holding of breath for agonizing moments a lifetime long.

Despite himself, Jaan held his breath. He wished he knew why he carried on. He could end this torture! Why couldn't he give in? It sucked.

He bobbed in the water, shivering, his arms wrenched above his head. His wings were sodden, tugging at his shoulders, weighing him down. He couldn't even lift his head. Instead, he allowed his gaze to focus on the rippling surface of the round pool. The image took him back to that blue, shimmering well. The one that stole him away from all that he once knew. Or thought he knew.

For some odd reason, as he looked down into the water and at his own sorry reflection, Jaan imagined families. Actual families. Comprising dark creatures such as him. A mother, a father, a brother, a sister. Cousins, aunts and uncles. Grandparents, grandchildren. Neighbors. Colleagues. Acquaintances. Friends. Lovers. It was just fantasy, but it consoled him. He could almost feel them - if only he could just reach out and touch...

Hah. Dream on, Jaan. Good thing he was dripping wet. He would never let his current owners see his tears flow. As they dunked him time and time again, there in the gloom of an underground waterfall and accompanying pool, he sought solace in his silly daydream, interrupted only by the unwelcome squeal of a pulley ripping him back to the here and now. Well, at least he was finally clean. At least that.

In his mind's eye, creatures such as him were many, and were beautiful and serene and majestic and wholesome and pure. And they smiled. And they cried. And they laughed. And they played. And they shared. And they basked in the sun, reveled, and dreamed as one of the coming dawn with joy in their hearts and peace in their souls.

Peace. He could find that. It was even almost within reach. He just had to let go.

oooOOOooo

"For pity's sake, Waarul! Stop this now! This is torture, not sluicing! Your quarrel is with me not him!"

"Quite. And it's an it not a him. You're a fool, Skwillin. A stupid, sentimental old fool."

Skillin allowed his shoulders to slump. "You can have the circus. It's all yours! Just let Karr tend him. Please!"

"Very well."

"Really?"

"Why not? The circus is mine now. You just surrendered it. Verbal contract. Let all those present bear witness! Haul the thing out."

Skwillin winced as Jaan slapped face down against the rock floor like a landed axolotl. Karrowin was on him in an instant.

"Bang his back! Now!"

Skwillin leapt onto the small of Jaan's back, straddling him. He shoved the heavy, waterlogged wings to each side with all his might. Hard going, as Jaan's wingspan was at least three times Skwillin's own body length. He thumped as hard as he could between Jaan's shoulder blades. Nothing. His hands came away bloody.

"What do I do? I don't know what to do!"

"Don't stop until I tell you he's dead, so help me!"

Skwillin thumped again, cringing at the contact with soggy, shredded avian flesh. This time, Jaan's body jerked. Then he spluttered as water trickled out of his mouth in spurts. Jaan drew in a sharp intake of breath, then began to squirm, feebly at first, then with more vigor. The poor avian opened its eyes to slits, and looked up at him with such hurt, it made Skwillin want to squirm. He felt like a worm. Skwillin watched Jaan's wings twitch, making a feeble effort to shuck off moisture from his shoulders to his wing tips. Were such appendages a bonus or a burden? Skwillin conceded he would never truly know.

"Thanks. I think."

"Y-Your welcome. I think."

"Tend the thing, Pim Karrowin. I want it performance-ready by ninth candle."

"But - "

"No buts. The circus is mine, and in case you conveniently forgot, that includes everything." He jabbed a foreclaw at Jaan. "Everything! Including this miserable creature you so readily parted good money for."

Skwillin bowed his head. He'd been duped. Waarul took him for a fool because he was a fool.

"Will you let me tend him alongside my littermate? At least that." Skwillin pleaded with his eyes.

"Of course! I'll just leave my two good friends here to keep a watch over things." Waarul snorted.

Skwillin looked up at at Waarul's retreating back, then at the grinning thugs. He bowed his head, looking as contrite as he could. It was all so clear to him now. Waarul had gone quite mad. Perhaps with unrequited lust? There was nothing he could do for Jaan bar assist Karrowin in making Jaan well enough for tonight's performance.

Staying with Karrowin also sent a message to Waarul. That he stood by his littermate, and vice versa. Then he had an idea. As he unraveled salve wraps for her to apply to Jaan's battered body, he whispered in her ear.

"Once were done here, I'm leaving to find the Atlantians. They exist, you know."

"You really are a fool, Skwillin. They are mythological creatures, borne of our own longing."

"Pilliam said -"

"Pilliam?" She gave him a knowing look.

"I see your point. Pilliam is a fool. It obviously runs in the family. I get it. Thank you. So very much. Still, I have to try, Karr."

"Help me bandage him up. And fetch those two furs from over yonder, would you? We'll settle him on the larger one, and cover him with the smaller. The poor thing is frozen. You'll have to hurry, Skwill. And just so you know, I plan on freeing all the animals some day. The circus ones, the zoo ones, all the livestock. I don't care how long or how much it takes."

"I don't doubt you. Now just for a change, please don't doubt me."

She smiled wanly at him. It was a start.

Skwillin sidled out of the cavern under the guise of fetching more medical supplies. He crept his way unseen to the surface, smiled benignly at the guards, tugged a forelock, and even chatted with them for a few moments. Then as he burst out into the open plain, he was grateful for a clear, starlit night with no painfully dazzling moons to assail his subterranean eyesight. He could do this. He steeled himself, and set off for the mountains at a pace, towards where his possibly not quite so witless cousin Pilliam had purportedly spied the monstrous, tendril-headed avian circling a summit. He only prayed it - he! - was still there, and that he would reach him in time. There were too many loopholes, too many variables, but he had to try. He owed it to his Jaan.

oooOOOooo

Something held smelling salts under his nose, jerking him awake. They were screeching at him! Buzzing! Clicking! Keening! He was meant to do something, but what? He'd forgotten his orders? Crap. The constant barrage of noise hurt his head. And why the clapping and cheering? It came at him from every direction. Oh, no. The circus. He was in the ring. Smelling salts? No, it was the smell of the crowd.

He came to perched a rock, if the ache in his ass was anything to go by. Jaan groaned. He knew the routine. Tug gently at first, find out whether he'd been pinned by his wings, his wrists, his ankles. It was sometimes all three, but usually he was horizontal for whenever that happened.

He tried to raise his arms. They were free. Wow. His legs? Left one. Check. Right one? Nope, not a chance. Definitely an ankle cuff. His wings? Yep, pinned against the rock. So, that was what was keeping him from faceplanting big time. He reached for his wings – gah! That movement pulled on his latest injuries - and found he was pinned loosely. Dare he pull them out? He guessed that was the idea. He was on display after all. The big attraction.

He jiggled the pins loose, flopped over onto his belly, and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His arms shook as he struggled to brace them. He felt so dazed. He was still sick, his body slick with sweat. When would this torture end?

His body felt restricted. He ran a shaky hand over his chest and belly. He looked down. Huh. Flesh colored bandages swathed his entire torso, crisscrossing over and under his wings and around his waist. He guessed if the crowd didn't see him up close, they wouldn't know he'd been patched up for this.

They'd dressed him in a silky pair of pants. Ordinarily, he might have considered it an act of kindness, but no, these pants were way too fancy and flimsy for that. Sparkly. For show. They'd most likely make him remove them afterwards. If he was lucky, they'd toss him a rag to wrap himself in. His owners usually expected him to drape said rag around his head or shoulders, and were often surprised when he covered his manhood, then tied the rag in a double knot at his hip.

Jaan fumbled around his neck, and felt a collar in place. Damn. It chafed. He squirmed uselessly against it. Ow!

He scrabbled at his hands, and felt thick wrist bands in place. Decorative, by the feel. Studded. If he got out of this, he'd maybe admire them out of boredom. Ankle bands? Yep, also there. Crap. And was that a waist chain? They'd prettied him up. He was clearly supposed to perform, but how? He guessed he'd have to, well, wing it as usual.

Jaan heard a growl. He sighed deeply. What now? He looked up to see - hundreds if not thousands of pairs of red eyes glinting at him in the dark. They weren't moving towards him. They were watching, waiting at a distance. An equidistance. Uh oh. The next growl didn't come from that far off. Then a spotlight hit him, and he let out a moan as the intense glare stabbed his eyes. He tried to block the spotlight, only to be bombarded with another light, then another and another. There was no respite from the assault.

Then came another growl. It was even nearer now. He looked out blearily towards the crowd. They were wide-eyed. He heard a communal gasp. Oh, hell, no! He was bait! He should have let himself drown!

Way to screw up, Jaan!

Two big cats now circled the rock. Jaan ripped his gaze away to the ceiling of the cavern. If only he could see the stars just one more time. Instead he looked towards the crowd. They clapped and cheered once more. How could they condone this? Huh, what was he thinking. This was the usual. Jaan sighed.

The cats began to slink towards him, hackles raised. Whuh? Then it sank in. The moles wanted him to fly. So, they didn't want him dead. Well, not yet anyways. Well, he might as well throw in an aerial stunt or two. He just had to summon the energy to take off.

He could do this. Keep himself alive one more day. Take one day at a time. He might even end up on the surface again.

He vowed to be grateful to his next owners for sunlight and moonlight and starlight. The wind in his hair, beneath his wings, up and over his body. Even for rain. Snow, not so much. He would behave. Really, he would. He would never mouth off again.

Jaan clambered to the highest point, flapped his wings, feeling the air fan him. It helped just a tad. He was overheated, sweat-ridden, but despite that he summoned the wherewithall to leap into the air.

He was about to perform a loop the loop despite his banging head, when he felt a jerk on his ankle, and he instantly dropped at least two body lengths. Those cats. He looked down in horror to see one of them drag him back down towards it link by link. This wasn't a natural hunting technique. These things were trained. What kind of sick outfit was this?

There was no sign of the one they called Skwillin. There was that other partner, plain to see under several spotlights. Waarul, dressed as a ringmaster, sporting a red jacket. He was shouting something, stirring up the crowd. What, like this was a stunt gone badly wrong? Uh, he didn't think so!

Waarul was imploring the crowd to help the 'poor, dumb avian', help drive away the - 'maoras'? The crowd was going wild! They were up out of their seats, throwing whatever they had towards the cats. It had to include coinage, maybe even jewelry. Cunning bastard.

Waarul was busy stirring them up into a frenzy, which made the cats hiss at the crowd in defense. The one mole broke away from the others. Was that the vet? Karrowin. Yeah, Karrowin. She dashed across to Waarul, snatching the whip from about his waist. What the hell was she thinking? Then she ran towards the nearest cat. Why?

From his aerial vantage point, Jaan spotted the second cat circling the rock. It was stalking her. He yelled for her to get back, even yelled at her by name, but he couldn't be heard above all the squealing and yipping and crashing of chairs. Crap!

Then - an explosion. Jaan looked up through his splayed fingers. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling of the cavern, and by the sudden lightening just above his ankle, his chain had been broken!

He could escape!

Save himself!

Reach the stars!

Debris rained down, and he watched in horror as one huge chunk of rock after another came crashing to the floor, sending the mole crowd scurrying for safety. Jaan swooped down, and tried to scoop the vet out of harm's way, but he couldn't lift her. Despite a rush of energy, it wasn't enough. Jaan shielded her with his body instead, and as the crowd screamed and cried out, he felt the flesh of his right thigh rip open. He screamed.

He'd been mauled!

Pain and shock made his vision gray. Chips of rock tumbled all around him. Jaan imagined reaching the stars even as he pushed the vet to the ground, and threw his body across her, wrapping his wings around them both, protecting both their heads. He thought he heard bursts of weaponsfire, saw flashes of some red light through his ragged feathers.

Something landed on him. Padded up his body. It was that other damn big cat. Jaan tightened his wings around the vet, exposing his own back. He hunched his shoulders to protect his neck, and curled up and over her as best he could. The cat licked along his back, and tore into it, ripping away his now bloodied bandages, tossing his body around. The pain was overwhelming, and he screamed in agony.

Still he clung onto her. When the cat slammed his head into a rock, he saw those stars. He'd reached them after all. They'd been in his head all along. He smiled to himself, even as the stars faded and his vision grayed, and he flopped lifeless to the floor.

oooOOOooo

**A/N** - goodbye, cruel world… ;-D

oooOOOooo


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** - me, a swan? Ah, go on! LOL

oooOOOooo

Jaan woke up dead today. There was no other explanation. He was floating, sprawled out on his back on a fluffy cloud. In his mind's eye, it was white and airy and perfect, not dark and downcast and ragged like he was. He found himself yielding to it, nestling in. And - nothing hurt him! Wow. It was just too wonderful to be true, though he knew it wouldn't last. Life wasn't like that, and somehow he doubted death was, either.

He usually slept in a crouch with his wings wrapped about him protectively, or in warmer weather, flat out on his belly, his wings draped about him loosely like a tossed blanket or even spread out if he happened to drop his guard in his sleep, but he never, ever slept on his back. Uh, except for just the once or twice when he'd made himself a bed of his own shed feathers stuffed inside a washed-up sack that'd once been filled with shipwrecked gourds. Those he turned into containers for drinking water, food and other supplies.

He'd slept well for months on that pristine beach beneath the stars, back when he was a beloved pet to a spoiled little seal pup; a prince. He wondered what happened to the kid after war broke out. He doubted his so-called royalty had served him well. There was no point in being special.

Special meant different.

Different meant drawing attention.

Drawing attention meant hurt.

He wished he knew what happened to Grrshilk and the other little seal kids, especially Princess Gwala, whom he'd come to know and love. The adults, not so much. They could rot for all he cared.

When he wasn't being beaten at first light into miserable awareness, he would simply wake up to a dayful of pain. Right now, he could feel - nothing at all. So this was what being dead felt like. He felt an overall lethargy, a numbness. His head was a little fuzzy, but that was okay. He could live with that. Or was it die? Still he followed his usual waking routine. It was ingrained after all. Was the afterlife really merely an extension of life? If it was, it was a damn nasty-assed trick.

Without opening his eyes, he tested his wrists and ankles. Right arm - check. Left arm - there was something there, maybe a chain. Aw, crap. Left leg - check. Right leg - check. He bunched the muscles between his shoulder blades, and felt a familiar tug. His wings were still there. Holy...

He tried to flex his flight feathers. Weird. They were there, but their movement was hampered. He guessed even heavenly clouds didn't always have the right give in them. But what of his left arm? Dare he take a peek, and risk his new owners knowing he was pretty much on the verge of wakefulness? But he was dead, wasn't he? Damn! This was downright problematic!

Jaan wriggled, checking over the rest of his body. Okay. Okay. So, his lower half was under a soft sheet. Great. So far, so good. Back to his left arm then. He drew in a slow, deep breath. He gingerly twisted his left wrist, first one way, then the other. He wriggled his fingers. Yep, his hand was still there. There was something sharp digging into the back of it, and a casement of some sort around his middle finger.

He struggled to control his breathing. He didn't want his latest owners to know he was remotely awake until he'd taken full stock of himself. Yep, if he was breathing, it meant he wasn't dead yet. That would totally suck ass and then some.

Jaan scrabbled his right hand against the cloud or whatever the freakin' hell it was. There was a familiar crunching sound beneath the fabric. Feathers. His? He was back with the seals of Mardol. Huh. He prayed their pointless war was over, and that they were in a magnanimous mood. He didn't get the infighting. Never did, never would. Seal, sea lion, walrus. Meh. Like he cared. They didn't all look the same, but he'd always wanted to tell them just that. Maybe now he'd get his chance. This time, he would insult them all every which way he could; their parentage, their sealhood, including the size of their flippers, which correlated with the inadequacy of their genitalia, and get them to kill him. There was no way he could go on like this. Not after…

Oh, holy f-

…the circus! Last he remembered, the roof had just caved in. He'd thought the place to be rock solid. He guessed those moles did, too. Talk about complacent. Jaan couldn't recall the outcome. Had he saved the vet? Karrowin? At least that. The stars had been within reach, but he'd forgone his own freedom to protect her.

So, what of him? Dare he ever open his eyes again? Was this some heavenly cloud, or an earthly sackful of feathers? There was only one way to find out.

Move it, Jaan!

He steeled himself, and peeked out through his eyelashes. Shoot, he could barely see. Yep, drugged. So what else was new? As soon as he could make out what creatures he was currently forced to deal with, he vowed to push their buttons big time, however many candles it took. Right now, he'd settle for being co-operative, get his bearings, work his way up to being fully dead before day's end. He'd already made it half way to oblivion, so why quit now?

What he opened his ears and eyes to was beyond belief. And this time, it was his own sordid mind responsible for his own torment. Did torture hold no bounds, that now he inflicted it upon himself during waking moments? This was worse than when he'd imagined his left hand being chomped off by the nastiest shark of them all.

Kolya.

He couldn't help but scream.

You torture yourself every day, Jaan…

oooOOOooo

"He's awake!"

"I'm not bloody surprised, Rodney, with you shrieking at the poor beggar like that. Kindly turn it down a notch or two, would you? To just below boiling point? Good man."

Carson Beckett knew Sod's Law aka Murphy's Law well. He would argue with Rodney McKay that it was truly the most immutable law of physics governing bloody well just about everything, but the daft man would rattle on about wormhole this and voodoo that pretty much ten to the dozen as if he weren't present even in the same building as Rodney, least of all in the same room.

Well, if empirical evidence were even remotely plausible in this instance, Sod's Law wickedly chose Rodney as the rescue team member to be there just as his latest patient woke. The poor lad was thrashing, wide-eyed. He was clearly utterly terrified.

"Aagh! No! I… I… "

"Calm down, son! You're fine! Or, you soon will be. Please, I'm a doctor!"

"Whuh? Not… a vet… then?"

"Och, no, laddie. Though I wouldn't ever turn down any living creature." Carson winced. Bad choice of words. It was meant to be reassuring, but at the way his patient turned his face away, and appeared to close down and clam up, he realized he'd most likely totally missed the mark. He wished Elizabeth were here. He tapped his earpiece.

"Doctor Weir to the infirmary. Our patient is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." Carson winced once more. Sometimes his random attacks of foot-in-mouth disease were worse than Rodney's hourly bouts. Speaking of whom, he had a certain someone to chase off, which he did with alacrity.

"Ow! You pinched me!"

"Shut it!"

"Patient abuse!"

"So sue me, already. And right now, Rodney, oddly enough, you're not actually a patient, you're merely a visitor. Be off with you now then!" Carson still found himself scanning him broadly, and smiling fondly after him as he scuttled out the door like a goosed crab on a caffeine high.

He turned to his one and only patient. His latest. He now had to school his face to one of professional concern. He'd never had to tend a rescued captive with this level of chronic abuse. He'd heard over the months via their new, few and far-between allies in this galaxy of the poor wee lad who'd been missing from his home for two bloody decades. Over half his life, according to their sparse records. This was - now what did they call him - some such with two syllables. He consulted his chart, and frowned. He didn't attempt to pronounce it. Wouldn't. Too bloody Star Trek or Lord Of The Rings for his liking.

Since his arrival, he and his fellow Earthlings had all coolly called the poor beggar 'John'. Fair enough. The lad originated from a sheepherding clan as they called it hereabouts, which brought about no end of sick jokes and stick from Rodney, despite his attempts to salvage the situation by calling them shepherds. For want of a better name, they'd listed the lad as John Sheppard at Doctor Weir's suggestion. It was fitting enough, he supposed, until they actually located his people, and in the meantime, it gave a solid name to the face.

John Sheppard. Since his well dramatic arrival last evening, Atlantis was abuzz if not aglow, and his name had been on everyone's lips from dawn till dusk. Atlantis herself hummed. From the moment they'd brought him over the threshold, the city had become alive. Before that, she'd been a mere shell of a dwelling, just somewhere to take shelter from the elements, a roof over their heads, all her secrets stubbornly held back, clutched a memory to her breast so to speak as she spied the horizon through a telescope from her bedroom window, her long lost lover drowned at sea, never acknowledging that she might yet be a widow; a ghost. He was sorely tempted to call her Mrs Muir.

Right now then, there was heat and light and running water including toilets that flushed on a whim, and lovely, warm, non-intermittent showers, not to mention access to Ancient databases. Altantis was no longer a campsite. There was also a very welcome vibrancy, a certain vigor to daily life, a joy in every step, and they all now possessed just about almost everything they could ever have hoped for on this groundbreaking expedition to another galaxy. But the man who had unwittingly instigated it all perhaps even with the naivete of a child lay broken before him. Carson had thought he'd seen it all. Until now.

Elizabeth Weir fluttered in, in that jolly-hockeysticks, hurry-slowly demeanor of hers. Festina lente, he recalled from his schoolboy Latin. No wonder she was stick thin and sinuous. She clearly used up all her expendable energy juggling her calm, fluid grace with her propensity for striving against being untempered, highly strung, like a precocious, unbroken thoroughbred.

Elizabeth glanced at Carson, and he nodded. She wasted no time thereafter, reaching their poorly charge's bedside within seconds. John Sheppard had been stabilized, and now seemed alert enough, though his eyes looked glazed if not panicked and defensive. Carson would recheck his vitals shortly. Meanwhile, he'd let Elizabeth do her job, play the diplomat; work her magic. Maybe she could even calm him down, reassure him. He sensed a long road ahead.

Carson took himself off to read some ratty old Sunday newspaper he'd wrapped something or other in like fish and chips. The mundaneness of it anchored him. The fanciful side of him caused him to imagine two bottles of gold-top milk delivered on Atlantis's doorstep, with tiny, plain little sparrows pecking holes into the tops and taking their fill o' cream, and some desultory, tuneless whistle of the number one slot in the Top Ten as the post popped through the obligatory brass letterbox of Atlantis's perfect ticky-tacky front door.

Carson sighed. Those carefree days were long gone, and he knew without a doubt he'd never get them back. Not this side of life.

oooOOOooo

"John."

"Whuh?"

"I apologize for my familiarity. We know you in fact to be… Jo'uhn of the Shepherd Clan, listed as missing from - " She'd forgotten her paperwork. Shit. By which, of course, she meant shoot. "For a terribly long while." She fumbled, and rolled her right hand, and stressed over channeling Doctor Rodney McKay for the umpteenth time that day. "John is a… beloved name from our homeworld, and we easily resort to it. Take it as a term of endearment. Uhm, welcome to Atlantis." She rolled a limp-wristed hand, then stuffed both hands in her pockets.

"You… know me? Know of me?"

The man she'd just so casually named John like some pitiful rescue dog scanned her features earnestly. She felt more than a little guilty putting on her benign ambassadorial face, but it was for the best. For him. And, God help her, for the expedition as a whole. They couldn't afford to lose him. Not now, and certainly not to sheep herding. But given his clearly horrific past, how could she put across that he had intrinsic value as a human being, and was not merely being used as a tool for their own purportedly non-nefarious purposes? He'd been a slave, a servant, a circus act. For over twenty years.

Elizabeth gathered herself. And continued.

"Yes, John. We know you. Of you. Not you yourself per se, of course. Since our arrival here several… moons ago, we have managed to garner a list of the missing. We do search and rescue as well as outreach. You are our second major rescue. Our first was one Ronon Dex, a Satedan. He in turn was on your rescue team. Rescue. It's... what we do." She was uncertain as to why she felt the need to repeat herself. "So far, we have touched base with the Athosians, who - "

She didn't want to mention the Wraith. Not yet.

" - needed somewhere new and wholesome in which to thrive."

The man nodded slowly even as his eyes rolled back in his head. Despite that, Elizabeth realized she'd hit home. She scanned him from head to toe. It was hard not to stare at his appalling injuries. Doctor Beckett had done his usual exemplary job. This man, this lost soul they so casually deigned to call John Sheppard as if it was their God-given right to bandy names was covered in bright, ragged red sutures over seventy five percent of his body, but at least his skin now glowed, finally, though he still looked a little pale.

She struggled not to stare at his wings. It was beyond incredible, almost too far-fetched. They were dark, almost black. What was left of them. This John Sheppard held so much promise. He was quite possibly as close as they could get to being a full Ancient.

Whether black, white, brown, red, yellow, pink or even glow-in-the-dark, the Tau'ri possessed brilliant white wings to a man. And woman. Oh, sure, there was always the occasional off-white, apple-white, rose-white and even snow-white aka blue-white depending on whether you were American or Canadian, though she hardly remembered which way around it was, neither did she care. Carson Beckett had black tips to all his lovely blue-white feathers making him an instant hit with many of the women on the expedition. What with his bright blue eyes, dimples and delightful demeanor, the man was a winner. He'd been the one to discover and develop the ATA gene, plus the apparent correlation between that and wing color, however subtle. His findings had been enough to kickstart the expedition, gather gene bearers, inoculate the prevalent Non, which was successful in just under fifty percent, merely causing the tips of their flight feathers to grizzle a bit. Blink and you'd pretty much miss it. Like Rodney's. His wings were, what they called in the trade, 'dirty blond'.

It was like the before and after of a laundry detergent commercial only in reverse. A standard joke, designed to offset any sense of failure. But nothing could awaken Atlantis despite their fullest attention and devotion, and they'd already been there for several months.

All it took in the end was a single, almost black feather, fluttering benignly to the floor.

Their precious charge, John Sheppard, was recuperating on the thickest eiderdown they could appropriate. It was either that or suspension on a water bed. They'd all discussed it, and opted for the eiderdown, suspecting he might need the comfort of it, given the wretched state in which they'd found him.

John Sheppard. She repeated his name again and again in her head. It flowed. She almost prayed - no, actually prayed! - he didn't revert to being Jo'uhn of some clan of sheep herders. If she repeated it long enough, there was a chance his name would become concrete, written in stone. Significant.

John Sheppard. John Sheppard. John Sheppard. She'd said it three times like Bloody Mary.

Elizabeth realized John Sheppard had floated off somewhere, hopefully somewhere restful and healing. She couldn't help but watch his right hand as it twisted into the fabric even as he dozed. He frowned in his sleep, and even pouted and whimpered like a little boy recovering from some standard childhood illness under the watchful eyes of concerned parents. It brought a lump to her throat.

She'd read the reports, seen the before shots. The evidence via preliminary reports was overwhelming. He'd been treated like an animal for over half his life, sorely abused and maltreated, tossed from pillar to post; sold on. But when she saw the actual photographic evidence of the straits in which they'd found him, one partially severed wing draped over another sentient being not of their kind, it brought tears to her eyes. She would have to thank Lorne later for having the presence of mind to take an evidential snapshot.

There was something truly special about John, and it was not just his uniquely strong ATA gene. This was going to be an exceptionally tough one to handle, perhaps even one of her toughest assignments to date. And to think she once thought heading an expedition to another galaxy would be taxing. When it came right down to it, it was dealing with people, but that was what politics was all about; the root of the word itself.

John Sheppard groaned, and cried out, arching his back, digging his head and heels, and even banging his fists into the softness of the eiderdown.

"Pl-ease d-don't do that… again," he whispered, his face contorting, his eyes closed the while, and his skin glistening with sweat. "I... I... "

"Oh, my God. Carson. Doctor Beckett!"

Elizabeth was ushered out of the ward. The staff was upon John in an instant. Did nurses come in flurries, flocks, gaggles, lightning flashes or Volkswagen loads?

She spied another dark feather on the infirmary floor and, before anyone could berate her for being a ghoul, she snatched it up, tucked it down the front of her shirt for safekeeping, and scurried back to her office, not once looking over her shoulder, though ghostly fingers dispensing endless prickly goosebumps played freely up and down her neck like a cello virtuoso.

She startled as the ambient light first brightened then dimmed with her passage. She rummaged down her front, then pulled out the feather once she reached some annexe. The lighting flared far beyond normal wattage, almost like a distress signal or even fireworks against a night sky.

Elizabeth tucked the feather back into her shirt, and pulled her collar tight. She shuddered, and rubbed the back of her neck. As the lighting flickered like a guttering candle then sputtered out in her wake, she wondered what power this John Sheppard held over Atlantis, or even she over him.

oooOOOooo


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** - you're a very fine swan indeed! ;-D

oooOOOooo

Elizabeth sat at her desk, turning the precious feather over and over in her hand, twisting it this way and that. It was a secondary flight, she now surmised. She thrilled. What this represented - what their John Sheppard represented - it was just too good to be true. It would turn the tide of the expedition completely in their favor.

As a shaft of sunlight caught the feather, she realized it wasn't black at all. It was a very dark brown, with pretty reddish lowlights. She twirled a forefinger through one of her own auburn curls. She examined the feather further, twisted it in and out of her fingers, stroking it, utterly caught up in its simple, poignant, broken beauty.

Its vanes were split, the barbs either bent out of shape or missing. She thumbed along the base of the quill, feeling a certain tackiness verging on grittiness. She rubbed her thumb against her fingertips, lifted her hand to her nose, and sniffed.

The smell was coppery.

Blood.

She slumped in her office chair, and wondered about the man lying in the infirmary, fighting for his life. She prayed he would recover, become functional, even blossom under their exemplary care. She'd been shooed out of there, but had since learned that he hadn't really taken a turn for the worse as she'd initially feared, but had merely succumbed to a terrible, feverish nightmare, one of many. She couldn't begin to think what he might have gone through over the years, and shuddered at the thought. It was quite possible he'd never seen his own kind before, or at the very least had blocked out any memory of his former, hopefully once upon a time carefree life in order to protect his own psyche from his loss.

They absolutely had to make a special effort to welcome him, no question, but somehow they had to not make him feel either owing or owned. It wouldn't be an easy balance. Not in the least.

As she made to tuck the feather in a drawer, she noticed a peculiar color shift. It was entrancing. She held the feather up to the light of her desk lamp, and saw glints of green and even a dash of purple, much like a raven's. The feather was as striking as the man himself. She looked about her, feeling somewhat foolish for doing so, and for some reason she couldn't quite fathom, she tucked the feather back down the front her shirt, and rubbed her forearms against an endless array of goosebumps.

oooOOOooo

Specialist Ronon Dex sat fidgeting in the flimsy conference room chair meant to bear his bulk. Dumb Ancients. They'd obviously never met a Satedan before. He could hear the chair creaking and groaning beneath him. He did nothing to save the ears of his fellow inmates, preferring to shift uncomfortably, bringing about further grunts of complaint from the furniture. Right now, they were his voice. He grinned.

Ronon scanned the room out of habit. Civilization. He never thought he'd see it again other than from the outside looking in, with his nose pressed up against a shop window, yearning after unattainable, tantalizing goods like a half-starved, post-culling waif.

His seven years as a runner still had him checking for all exits before he could relax. It was a security thing, and not something he would drop any time soon. Other than the door he came through, he located the latches to the mirror image balcony windows, an emergency exit marked 'emergency exit' in Tau'ri, and a single panel covering the air duct, though only little Radek Zelenka could possibly fit through one of those, and even that would likely be a tight squeeze. Ronon would never let his guard down, plus he had his new people to protect, possibly even from themselves, given the extent of their naivete since their arrival in the Pegasus Galaxy.

So, where was Commander Weir? Teyla was here, and Rodney, as was Taskmaster Evan Lorne, his CO and rescuer. Decent enough guy. A little bland, truth be told, but Ronon had no real complaints beyond boredom.

Lorne was naturally gray, which somehow caused the Tau'ri womenfolk to drool and fuss if not faint over him, though for some reason, his new taskmaster never returned their favors. He had a decent enough physique and smile, Ronon guessed, though he was a little on the short side. He was what maybe some women might consider cute. Like a pup or a kit. Melena had once imparted something along those lines about a rival of his who was head and shoulders less imposing than him, though she'd said it with a wink, and a sensual double stroke up and down his forearms, followed by... nothing more than a fleeting kiss.

Ronon shucked off those thoughts, especially as Amelia Banks generally invaded his thoughts these days, and she'd followed up with more than a kiss. She'd grasped his arm, hauled him off to a dark hallway, and claimed him as if per Satedan culture.

Privacy of any sort meant a measure of interest, if not committment. The few feeble lights flickered off, and he thanked whoever or whatever had control over the City of the Ancients to grant him this brief moment of respite. Of joy.

They'd... kissed and fondled. Nothing more. Well, he didn't know if it meant the same to the Tau'ri as it did to Satedans, but he'd take his chances with a stunning, exotic-looking female kick boxer. He'd flashed a winning grin at her, and she'd smiled coyly in return. Coyly? Her expression was full of promise.

He'd needed a cold shower after that first brief encounter, bandaged or no. And the means to focus. Sparring helped. As did missions. He had some downtime coming to him. And time with Mel - no, Amelia - would be worth giving his all. To her. And to this expedition.

Lorne. The thought of his CO was enough to dampen his ardor for Amelia. He didn't exactly hate being beholden to this Lorne, but the man was just too… textbook. So here he was, on a rescue team, making others beholden to him in return. The prospect of paperwork alone made him want to take flight, but so far, he'd managed to avoid it. For Amelia.

Days like today kept him here, too. Sheppard. The man was an enigma. Ronon needed to stay. To find out. Stuff. What made Sheppard tick.

Ronon heard a commotion in the hallway. Looked like Beckett was on his way one minute, and got turned around the next, ending up delayed, most likely caught up in their single casualty, this Jo'uhn of the Shepherd Clan, the one they decided to rename John Sheppard in a totally cavalier manner as if erasing his heritage. They better not rename him! McKay already called him Conan once, though he better duck next time. After seeing the movie, he couldn't complain. Arnie was totally kick-ass. He could see himself and Amelia totally kicking alien ass together. It'd be sweet.

Yep, his addiction to action movies kept him here, too, truth be told. If he didn't have his sparring with an endless supply of rookie marines, he would have gone soft weeks ago. That Salisbury steak with mash potatoes and those little round, sweet'n'sour green pellet things helped pin him, too. And chewing gum. Of course, Amelia Dex had a nice ring to it.

Ronon wanted to get right out there and beat up some more bad guys, and maybe locate some Wraith planets, kill himself some more Wraith maybe alongside the new love of his life, but there was currently no way yet to reach those space gates the damn things hid beyond. The Atlantis expedition had those gateships stored away which might get them there someday, but they had no means of flying them. Yet. There was something missing. Judging by the buzz, this Sheppard was the key.

He'd seen movies where cars were started with those little car keys, or of late, remotes. For some reason, he imagined the same for the gateships, only the keys were feathers. Stick one in the keyhole quill end first, twist, and the thing would brum into life. He didn't get why they couldn't just hotwire a gateship, but hey, what did he know?

Remote feathers. Now that was the kicker.

Ronon pushed his chair back, tipping himself onto the two back legs, finally spinning around on one, fluttering, only to come back to fo face the omnipresent table, and have to wait some more. He thought he heard a chair leg splinter. He resorted to drumming his fingers.

"Nice pirouette there, Nureyev."

He guessed what a pirouette was, and that Nureyev dude better be an action hero, though he doubted it. These Tau'ri liked to wind him up. Yup. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and looked up and across through hooded eyes, assuming what the Tau'ri called a poker face. McKay leaned back, eyes wide.

"Uh, thanks," Ronon offered innocently. It was fun intimidating McKay. Ronon dropped his hands in his lap at a single raised eyebrow from Teyla.

Uh oh.

So, where the hell was Commander Weir? This was meant to be a report on the rescue mission. In the meantime, he mused on what had taken place just hours ago…

oooOOOooo

"Let's get moving, people! Tango at three o'clock!"

"Repeat in plain English, McKay! I repeat! Repeat in - "

"Oh, for crying out loud, Major! Down there! Like, the only human? Hello? Over to your right? No, your other right! Oh, good thinking! Send in the grunts, why don't you! Perhaps overrunning the place would work a treat! Sneaky, much?"

Screw this! Ronon dived down amidst the dust and debris they'd churned up much to his chagrin, spotted their 'tango', and shot the man's chains off just as some big cat was dragging him downwards link by link towards immense, awaiting jaws.

He willed the man to fly up and out right then and there, making this a clean mission, but no, the dumb, self-sacrificing bastard had to fly down, and drape his body over a local, perhaps the aforementioned sister of the mole dude who'd tracked them down on their last night on Kandia just as they were packing up to go home.

He pondered upon what went down.

As Ronon had stomped out the last embers of the camp fire, some furry thing had blundered in, and had practically begged them to rescue a severely neglected avian it'd once owned, apparently much to its abject shame. Yep, it'd used the derogatory term 'avian' in front of them. Ronon nearly shot the little creep.

Teyla calmed him down, but he carried on snarling, aiming his stunner full in the mole's face. Then it burst into tears. He couldn't shoot it after that. Good thing. It yielded intelligence. Sounded like they needed to hurry.

The facility was guarded. They'd found another point of ingress by means of some fancy, encased Atlantian echolocation device they called an LSD, and Ronon had set the charges. Too many. The place had imploded.

When the dust cleared a little, they all plunged below, dodging spotlights and airborne... jewelry? Coins? - and he'd been the first to locate the 'neglected avian' sheep herder, chained to a rock. The man was clearly half dead, leaking blood everywhere, over rocks, over dirt, soaking... bandages. Bandages! Gah!

Fury kicked in, and Ronon went in guns blazing. He took out one big cat, but not before it had attacked the sheep herder. Twice. Idiot. He could have gotten away!

Ronon watched in awe as the sheep herder swooped down instead, and wrapped his entire body around that freakin' mole. Horror smacked him across one ear and then the other as the cat mauled the man's leg, then took a swipe at his right wing, partially severing it at the shoulder. Still the man clung to his charge. Damn! He sure wasn't making this easy.

Ronon swore to beat him up himself, should he survive this. He also realized in an instant that this man would make a decent sparring partner, and for that alone he was worth saving. He'd kick his sorry ass and then some. It'd be fun. Yeah.

He could hear Taskmaster Lorne calling for all civilians to vacate the premises, take cover, yet take into account there was potentially at least one civilian casualty. The ringmaster. It had stayed behind despite warnings, scrabbling around the dirt floor, and stuffing whatever it could find into pockets, its shirt front, until they were bulging. It had tried to crawl away just as the last of the cavern ceiling began to tumble. The last he saw was of it staring skywards, and attempting to shield its head with its front paws. The damn thing never stood a chance.

Ronon didn't bother to check. There was no way anything could survive a boulder that large, or blood loss that great. The scene was pretty much like a crushed burger bun with ketchup oozing out the sides.

Ronon's focus shifted back to the sheep herder. He set his gun to kill, and took out the second cat. Then all hell broke loose as the rescue team dashed as one to the sheep herder's side.

It didn't look good. Ronon stood back as the medics gently peeled their tango's right wing away from the mole, who was then up in an instant, and scurried away. It rushed into the welcoming arms of its brother, the one who'd fetched them, sobbing. It wasn't hurt. Maybe these mole dudes weren't so bad after all. Sounded like they cared. Some of them anyway. Just like humans, he guessed.

Ronon stood back in silence, panting to get his breath as the dust cloud settled, stifling a cough. He let the medics do their job, and kept his gun poised, ready to shoot. Looters, anything. None of those moles dudes better even look at him the wrong way, but they all kept their distance.

Smart thinking.

The sheep herder was a mass of blood and bruises from head to toe. And most of his injuries appeared old. He was bandaged around his entire body. They'd sent him into the ring in that state? Ronon growled. He really needed to kick ass right now, and mole ass would do even if they weren't Wraith or Replicators. He glared about him as if looks could kill, and every last mole scattered bar two.

The half-dead sheep herder was unresponsive. Ronon watched the medics run through their field treatment routine, but there was no smile or nod, just grim expressions. Shit. They did their usual - splint, stick in IVs to bags of whatever it was, then rolled the man on his front onto a stretcher.

He, Teyla and Rodney stepped aside as the marines took a corner each, stood up, braced themselves, and on the count of three, they leapt into the air. Ronon and the rest of them took free-form formation in silence. There was nothing they could do but take point or six. He looked back to see those mole siblings still clutching each other, and dammit if one of them didn't wave goodbye.

Ronon snapped out of his musings as Weir finally burst in, looking oddly flustered. She sat down at the head of the table, composed herself, which involved fixing her hair and adjusting her top around her sparse cleavage, then after making some kind of irritating hmm sound, looked at him direct.

"Specialist Dex. Ronon. Mission report. What precisely went down yesterday?"

She squinted. He frowned. He could do this. Piece of cake as these Tau'ri would say.

Ronon leaned forward, and quit pivoting on his chair.

"Uh, used too much C4. Facility caved in. Killed a big cat. Rescued John Sheppard. Flew out."

She stared at him long and hard. Then squinted again, blasting him with her eyes. Uh oh. Thankfully, they were set to stun. She didn't ask him to elaborate. Instead she turned to Rodney McKay.

"Rodney?"

"We got in, we got our man, we got out, and we stayed alive!"

"Rodney!"

"What?"

"Nothing. Teyla? Tell me something useful. Please."

Teyla nodded serenely.

"It was not easy infilitrating this facility. It was heavily guarded as we suspected. Thankfully our intelligence indicated that there might yet be another point of ingress, which sadly necessitated the use of C4."

Teyla glared at him. He grinned back, with a visible mouthful of chewing gum. C4 was the shit. Teyla rolled her eyes.

"As I was saying, the roof of the cavern housing the… Big Top, is it?...was not thick, and possessed many fault lines. It was already unstable to say the least, and might well have caved in at any moment. We chose an area to one side, in the hope of minimizing collateral damage, which thankfully was limited to just one, which ironically was that of the ringmaster."

Elizabeth looked relieved. Pleased, even.

"Major?"

"Full report already sent to your inbox, ma'am, this morning at six hundred hours sharp. Unless you'd like me to reiterate here."

Major Lorne pursed his lips, which meant - absolutely nothing.

"No! Thank you. I've had quite enough reporting for one day. Now, I want to ask you all how we should go about integrating our John Sheppard into Atlantis society. Your thoughts, please."

"Offer him a home and a purpose like you did me," Ronon stated flatly.

"And me," added Teyla with an emphatic nod.

"And, well, maybe, er, that is to say, me," whispered Rodney as he raised a tentative hand. "What?"

oooOOOooo

Jaan ran through all his past owners in his mind. It hurt his head, and rattled his frame from the top of his sorry cowlicks right down to the tips of his long toes, but it might give him some means of dealing with the latest ones, who for some reason weren't prepared to let him die, and even did huge, soulful seal pup eyes at him, especially that Elizabeth, whom he took to be his primary owner.

Seals. His thoughts rested upon his little seal prince owner, Grrshilk. Like any kid, he had been delighted to have been given a new pet.

Jaan.

The seals were all kind to him at first, and he'd learned the cycle of their years, discovering that he'd been gifted to Prince Grrshilk for reaching Gma'aghk Hllgh'k, which was either something to do with gaining double figures or surviving some decimating childhood pox. He never did find out which. Neither did he care.

For want of a better plan, he'd decided to play along. Food was plentiful, they didn't mind his occasional taking off into either the dawn or sunset, and he even had the run of the beach. Maybe they would let him swim? Bask in the sun? Run?

He'd tempted fate, and had achieved them all. Wow. He'd swum reasonably well, but nothing like they could, given their streamlined bodies, and they smirked at him, toyed with him, played with him.

Petted him.

Well, at least he could beat them at basking and surfing. He had both of those down to a fine art since he was naturally lazy. And they let him run twice a day, even inland. Still, the funniest thing to them all was the way he jumped all scaredy-cat over rock pools. The memory of it made him grin. What, he was supposed to waddle through them as they did? Get his bare feet nipped by crabs?

Nuh uh.

He shook his head.

And leapt.

They cackled.

He did it again.

Wow.

They rolled around, clutching their bellies in merriment. It earned him a nickname. Rowgli. It meant Pool Hopper or Puddle Jumper. Hey, it was better than - well, it was better than just about everything else he'd ever been called, though Fluffy came in at a close second. He lived up to the name. For five whole years. It never got old.

He often wondered what happened to the kid. And his kid sis. She was a cutie. Gwala. That always sounded like a gurgle to him. He could never pronounce any of their names correctly, and though they laughed, it was with him not at him. They didn't mind that he never mastered their language. Until the Outbreak. The Fucking Great Fucking Walrus War. That was when the beatings began. For being stupid.

He had no idea why his puddle-jumping tickled them, apart from the fact there was no way their podgy little bodies could ever become airborne, unless they were bees. Now, those things defied every law known to… those defied… they…

Known to…

Defied...

Every law…

Defied?

Defied!

Kolya!

No!

"No!"

"John!"

"Please!"

"Son?"

"I'm not fluorescent! I'll try to be!"

"Och!"

"I'm good," Jaan whispered hoarsely, and they backed off as one. Maybe they'd give him a chance to recuperate before - whatever it was they had in store for him. Judging by the way they stared at him, ogled his wings while pretending not to, it was something monumental. Crap.

"John?"

John? Okay, he could work with that. He could be John. Just another dumb play on his birth name. Until next time.

"Whuh?"

They'd come for him. This was it. He shifted position, hoisting his sore, weary body upright on unsteady arms. They wanted something. He just didn't know what it was.

They'd patched him up, sewn him up, stuck him with pins, inserted tubes, hooked him up to endless wheezing, snoring gadgets, and plunked him in the middle of the softest, most wonderful bedding he'd ever had in his whole life. Conversely, his mind felt woolly, his body felt kinda not there like he'd squirreled it away over winter and had forgotten where he'd left it, and he couldn't even take a freakin' piss by himself.

He scanned them all through bleary eyes. They looked - kinda expectant as they stood in a row before him. They were beautiful creatures, all. And oh, how they glowed as they stood proudly four-square, bathed in the wondrous light of those colored, geometric glass windows of theirs.

The male with the headful of tendrils and brown leather clothing sported magnificent, brown, leathery tattooed bat wings, and his bearing was beyond fierce. Next to him stood a graceful, honey-colored female with a skimpy, jewel-toned top no doubt to match her pert little butterfly wings. She, too, stood noble and proud. The rest of them were a little less flashy with their drab, baggy clothing with just the occasional splashes of color for the most part in stark panels, and their wings were feathery, mostly white, though some looked grubby or stained, but even they stood tall. Their wings were nothing like his.

He was painfully aware of how pathetic he must look as he lay here, beaten, dark and broken and bandaged and mismatched. He felt a new emotion. Shame. It was bad enough to be taunted by another species, but to finally find creatures oh so close to his own kind, and still be looked down upon was exquisite torture. It made him shake.

Jaan bowed his head. One of them touched his shoulder, causing him to jump. He forced himself not to shrug, to keep his body still. At least until he knew what he could and couldn't get away with.

"John."

"Yeah."

"We have a request."

This was it.

"'M listening."

"We want you to know that we care."

The usual precursor to hurt and loneliness. He stifled a cry, and took a deep breath instead.

"I hear ya."

"We want you to recover here, and feel safe with us."

Ah, the lulling approach. He flashed a lopsided smile, and offered a shrug.

"Sure." Judging by their grins, he'd appeased them. For now.

"You are free to go, if you wish. Either that, or you are welcome to stay here with us, though it would be better for you if you were fully healed first."

John snorted. He'd heard that one before, but this time, it really pissed him off. Did they really have to wave that one in his face? Make him beg?

He'd been released before, only to be recaptured by the huntsrabbits of Peng. Time and time again, they sent him out, even giving him a day's head start with a communal toothy grin. Before long, he would refuse to move from the starting block. It just wasn't worth the brief sense of hope, the short-lived elation of being free.

"Whaddya want? Just - tell me. " He winced. When would they quit this cruel game?

"You have a lot to offer, John."

"It's all yours. Like you need to ask." He shrugged. He didn't own himself after all.

"We just want you to know that you are, well, pretty special, in a sense. It's your feathers. They wield a certain power, a magic if you will. We want you to know that with them, we might well gain the stars."

"You want my feathers? My feathers, huh. Wow." He struggled to control his breathing.

"There is so much to explain! But simply put, we believe your wings hold the key to - "

"Bloody hell, Elizabeth! For a diplomat, you're making a complete bloody dog's dinner of this, I really must say!"

"I believe what Doctor Weir is trying to say is that your feathers are the key to very many more rescues," declared the butterfly woman with a sage nod.

John bowed his head, then nodded slowly. He could do this, if it meant saving others. He thought long and hard, and came to a decision.

"Take them. Take my wings. Just - do me a favor and knock me out first, huh?"

"Och, dear Lord. No, son! Just part with whatever you care to spare us during molting season!"

John heard a communal gasp. He looked up and around. Tears? What was with that? The curly-haired woman was blubbing freely, the other with hair the color of new honey was sniffling and rolling her eyes - and the men were shuffling on the spot. One pinched the bridge of his nose, another shook his head, and yet another stared wide-eyed, his mouth flapping open and shut like a gutted walrus. What was with that? The leather-winged one turned away, and smacked a fist into the wall. John cringed. He didn't dare hope they meant any of that, like any part of him was his own.

It was all too much. He felt his breathing become rapid.

He'd let his guard down.

"I… I… " he began, but speech failed him as panic set in.

They were torturing him. With false promises as ever. He had to get away! He looked about him, and with nothing else available to him, he had to attempt an escape. No question. He was alone.

The open window. Whether he'd soar or plummet was anyone's guess, but at least he could finally take ownership of his own fate. At least that. They could pluck his sorry feathers from his cold, dead body since that was the likely outcome. That or plunder whatever he might shed in his wake as he gained the sky. He could do this. He scooted up to the head of the bed, gathered the wherewithall from deep within, and launched

oooOOOooo


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** - say, who's an ugly duckling? Not I! LOL

oooOOOooo

"Lemme... go… "

"Dumb decision, Sheppard."

"Yeah, well. That dumb decision was… for me… to make."

John found himself dangling and flailing over the edge of the balcony, his forehead butting concrete, his naked ass in the air and catching the chill, evening breeze. He could feel the skin scraping from his palms, his knees and even his chest as he slammed into the wall time and time again from the momentum of his half-baked leap to either freedom or oblivion.

Salvation.

On his own terms at last.

Bat Wing had grabbed him by his left ankle just as he'd pushed off. He thought he might just have gotten away with a cool launch into infinity, with all about him suitably stupefied into non-action, but that Bat Wing had freakishly leapt into life, throwing himself towards him, snatching at him, and finding instant purchase like he'd been tickling salmon his whole damn life.

John tried to kick out with his free foot, but the recent mauling had weakened his entire right leg, rendering it useless. John went limp - maybe they'd drop him if there was no fight left in him - but Bat Wing began to howl, like a revved up motor about to spend the last of its fossil fuel. Yeah, he'd witnessed vehicles once when he was owned by those humans. Even racing cars. He prayed none of their kind were ever captured by the wingless Horgo. They'd made his life a misery for two sorry years.

Bat Wing tightened his grip.

The Horgo.

He'd been kept in a dank, dimly-lit repair shop, chained under some discarded metal panel attached to and overhanging some nasty-assed, barely fit-for-spare-parts engine too heavy for him to lift in some sick twist on the whole ball and chain thing. He was mostly sent in to fix that heaving, cranking, giant machinery with wrenches and screwdrivers because he was small and thin compared to them, and they either couldn't access any of it or were just too damn lazy. He'd have to clamber up and over, in and around, and even through and along, down endless scary pipes and sometimes into tanks to exact repairs and patch-ups. With his wings scrunched up right along with his balls.

He'd spent those two years covered in oil and dirt, terrified that fire could easily break out. If he didn't do a good job, they would take the tools of the trade to his bare skin. He fucking hated screwdrivers, the way they could be stabbed then twisted into his flesh to exact pain as much as draw blood. Make his scream.

On the plus side, he'd been able to take those racing cars out for a spin.

Some of them were sweet rides. Yeah, there were good days. At least he'd learned to drive, not that it ever did him any good. It was just one more brief escape from his pathetic lot. Once he'd delivered, it was back to cowering under that panel, awaiting his next task, and hoping a little food and water might get dumped in his bowls.

John fought, flapping both wings in a futile attempt to gain some loft. He realized he would have plummeted after all. His right wing was splinted rigidly against his torso, and the primaries on his left were - missing! Damn! He'd have flapped himself in circles, and spiraled into the sea. On the way down, he would have thought of a time when he was happy, back when the seals of Mardol loved him.

It would have been a fine way to go. He clung onto that one good memory. It would have to sustain him through whatever these new owners held in store for him.

"You. Clipped. Me."

"No, son. I wouldnae. Not by a long shot. Really."

As he swung free like a piece of strung-up meat, John spied Butterfly Wing come at him from his right, and Gray Wing from his left. He twisted his upper body away from the wall only to see a flock of identical White Wings hovering in formation, training their weapons on him. Soldiers. Or guards. John slumped, allowing the fight to ebb from him.

Dammit! He punched and pummeled the outer wall of the tower with both fists, bloodying his knuckles, drawing blood he didn't have to spare but longed to release forever, and screamed his defiance. Then he sank. Went limp.

He was spent. He allowed the three of them to haul his sorry ass back through the open window, scraping his belly from his crotch to his navel in the process, and set him on the floor of their healing room. That Black Tip was on him in an instant.

John was carrion.

"I'm so sorry, lad."

"You… clipped me," he repeated inanely as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Och, no, lad. You were sorely injured. A cat got you. It did much of the damage, not us. I'm afraid your primary feathers were mostly pulled out. We, conversely, want you to heal. Honest."

"Why? Uh, forget I asked." He'd already figured it out for himself. They needed his feathers for some ritual; magic, they called it, and he'd be a living factory for them. They... needed him to heal.

"Are you hurting?"

Hah! Was he ever. He was always hurting.

"I'm good."

What other response was left him? He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that a threatening tear wouldn't trickle down his cheeks. His body might be shot, even his memories, finally even his mind, but he still had his pride.

Then again, no. When he thought about it, he really didn't even have that. He'd been kidding himself all along. His tears were right there on the verge, making his vision blurry. He stifled a whimper, and twitched and squirmed under the vet's ministrations, but there was no wriggling away.

No freedom.

No oblivion.

No salvation.

Just here and now.

He let go.

Gah...

This was almost as bad as pissing himself. Holding on for hours until there was no holding back, finally messing his own bedding when he'd been caged for days on end, wrist chains preventing him from draining his aching bladder through the bars even in full view of the paying public. It had been a sorry relief. He'd been hosed down within a day, and given a change of bedding, a fresh wrap and even some greasy salve to slap into place, though he could never look those smug zookeeping warthogs in the eye ever again.

"We'll get you settled back into bed then. If that's all right with you."

John nodded. And winced. His head pounded. Yeah, dumb decision.

He was a mess. As his tears trickled then dripped then leaked then finally flowed freely, he wondered why they were all being quite so gentle with him, patting him, stroking him, lifting him. There was no rough handling. Go figure.

Then he remembered.

They wanted his feathers because they were different, and held some magical property according to their rites and customs. It stood to reason they'd want them reasonably intact. And him. He suspected he might be treated reasonably well wherever they kept him. He just hoped his next cage would be large enough for him to maneuver, and that he'd see daylight once in a while. Maybe sometimes even the stars.

"Sleep now then, there's a good lad."

Sleep was as good an oblivion as any, and for want of a marginally less dumb course of action, he complied. They reconnected him to their machinery, and jabbed him some more. Then - someone tucked him in? Whuh?

"Hi! My name's Marie, and I'll be your nurse for this evening."

Whuh? That was one act of comfort he never expected and had never experienced, not even as a pet.

In a flash, he recalled a dark-haired woman with pale green eyes a shade vastly similar to his own. In this memory, she gazed down at him lovingly, stroking his face, her almost black wings twinkling like a billion rainbows as beams of sunlight played over them through his open bedroom window. She was settling him down for a nap? No! He vaguely remembered protesting as it was still light out, and he was a big boy now. He didn't need to take a nap any more. That stuff was for babies.

In his mind's eye, she was beautiful. He hadn't ever remembered her. Until now. Could it be?

He fought sleep. Crap! He needed to remember! But whatever it was they put in that needle they stuck him with, it made his mind feel like it was floating on a cloud. As he succumbed to sleep, he fought for a single word from his childhood. The word fought against resurfacing, but it was there, somewhere, skimming across his lips.

"Mmhh… "

Then it came to him.

"M-Mahm."

oooOOOooo

"It's called a pirouette."

"Whuh?"

"That funky little spin you just did that landed you on your ass."

Ronon was grinning. Bastard. John could feel himself grow a little pissed as he sat sprawled on the annexe floor, his hard-won dignity just a little bent out of shape.

"Could you maybe help me out here, Chewie? My crutch just snapped."

"Sure. Nureyev."

Ronon reached down, and grabbed John's left forearm, then yanked him upright. John bounced onto both feet, then found his balance. For a change he didn't trip over himself, and he landed neatly four-square. It was high time he ditched the crutch anyways, but Carson made him use it still. He guessed he could use what was left of it to spar with Teyla. The Atlantians called it either recycling or upcycling. Made sense.

Repurposing. Like they'd repurposed him.

He bent down to pick up the pieces, and felt a tug on his bum wing, causing him to wince. He paused to rotate the joint. It was stiff, but no longer sore, and both his wings had fully grown back in.

He was having most problems with his right leg after the mauling. Go figure. Still, Carson had him all neatly sewn up with minimal scarring, and whatever was left all raised and ragged he couldn't see anyways, so he really didn't care, as it mostly stayed hidden under his vest.

He'd been given a clean enough bill of health to be able to leave the infirmary for short jaunts, and build up his strength. If he was attempting some fancy moves on a single crutch, he was more than well on the way to a full recovery. He just had to take off. For the first time in three months.

Take off? He was free to go, they said, but they'd asked him to stay. Become a member of their expedition. Wow. He still had to make a decision. No-one bugged him about it. No-one even stared at him much any more, not even in the crowded mess hall. He'd become a fixture.

He had a real home here if he wanted.

Ronon beat him to snatching up what was left of the crutch.

"Here. You don't have to do everything," he growled.

John shrugged, grinned, then tested his wings. Yep, he could maybe tackle a short flight when no-one was babysitting him. He'd been assigned to Ronon and Teyla. As the only other non Tau'ri, apparently they thought he'd appreciate their company and insider view of things in the Pegasus Galaxy.

Rodney hovered around a great deal, looking expectant, grinning that lop-sided grin of his, practically mirroring his own, and the four of them had kind of hooked up. It was like having family. Which was really just as well.

They'd taken him to his birth planet only last week. He had a brother, who was some bigwig sheep tycoon. Or so they said. Rodney had called him a big fish in a little pond, which made John chuckle.

Dei'iv was suspicious of him at first, and had asked him outright if he wanted a piece of their inheritance. John told him he had places to visit, and if they ever let him, rescues to mount. He told him he wasn't Jo'uhn any more. As for being of the Shepherd Clan - that he wouldn't deny as it was a tiny part of who he once was.

It was a strange, stilted meeting, and he didn't feel he had anything in common with his one and only blood relative. Both parents were long dead, and any other close relatives were lost in an in-house war he had yet to fathom. Apart from verifying what he suspected, that he took after their mother, there was really nothing much to talk about.

Dei'iv's own wings were slate gray like the rest of his people, but Dei'iv himself had black tips to his flight feathers. Apparently that was unusual, marking him as special, feeding his already inflated ego, rising him up in some noble ranks.

And right back to some in-house war in which he might have once played an innocent part.

John shuddered. Politics. So not his bag.

Rodney had said Dei'iv was jealous, which made John laugh out loud. Still, it seemed his brother had only made the effort to locate him after their father had died, mostly to make sure there would be no contest re the successful enterprise they'd built together without him. John told him he was in no hurry to watch over others herding sheep from behind closed doors, and that he had nothing to fear from him.

They shook hands, and that was pretty much it. He was in no rush to go live there, especially since he wasn't wanted, and his dark, dark-winged presence might instigate yet another war. Of attrition.

His life was here now, in Atlantis. He only hoped Elizabeth meant what she said. That he could go out on search and rescue missions with them, and maybe one day even head his own team. That would be sweet.

John trudged wearily alongside Ronon who was now jogging on the spot. He was clearly itching to run.

"You go right ahead, buddy. I'm good." John flashed a lopsided grin. He looked forward to going running with Ronon some day soon. He missed his barefoot runs along the beaches of Mardol, but this was so much better. He'd have company. Human company. Whoa.

These humans had given him all kinds of cool stuff over the past few months, so much so that real soon he'd need a duffel bag to put it all in, but the running shoes they'd given him were the coolest.

"Here. Later." Ronon thrust the two broken pieces of crutch at him, and dashed off. John looked about him, wondering where to head. Maybe the mess hall for a snack? The rec room to catch a movie? He wasn't sure where he could go without an escort, though they were easing up on that. But he was alone right now, and unsupervised. He could get lost here if he wanted. He hoped to gain the east pier sometime, maybe even fly there under his own steam, though the transporters were great. Yep, he could fly there and transport back if he got tired.

Atlantis was huge. A living, breathing city that'd apparently come to half life the night they brought him there half dead. There was still so much of her to explore. The Atlantians had a fine collection of his shed feathers by now, and all key personnel either carried or wore one, activating devices and accessing otherwise locked rooms all over the city, using his feathers as a key.

It was all more than a little weird. According to Lorne, they could now fly those gateships through space gates, opening up a whole new realm of possibility. They didn't have much of an advantage over those Wraith they'd told him about, but at least now they'd managed to level the playing field. Apparently Lorne'd felt real bad about waking them up, but as John knew to his cost, shit happened.

"Hey! Sheppard! Wait up!"

"McKay?"

Rodney McKay ran puffing and panting towards him.

"Would you like to continue the guided tour of Atlantis now that you're uppish and aboutish?" McKay rubbed his hands together, and looked expectant.

"Sure, just so long as it's anywhere away from the infirmary." John shrugged, and thumbed over his shoulder to imply the opposite direction. He was feeling wilted, but he needed the exercise. Rodney was clearly vastly unfit. They could struggle to keep up with each other.

McKay snapped his fingers. "Ooh! Ooh! I know just the place! Stagger this way!"

McKay dragged him to a vast, sparse room, in the center of which lay a huge, ornate throne. So, some throne room? Big deal. Still, it was something new to him, and Atlantis was a place of discovery a minute not only for him, but for the entire expedition. The chair beckoned him, and he limped over to it. He was tired now, and needed to rest, though a small part of him still feared a beating if he ever did anything out of place.

"What is this?"

John ran his fingers along the arm rests. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, brought his hand to his face, and sniffed. Yeah, dust.

"It's a chair."

"I see that. What's it for?"

"We dunno. It doesn't do anything except look pretty. It's all wired up like holiday decorations. We had once hoped it might be a weapons platform, though we're beginning to think it's merely a showy throne with bells and whistles and flashing lights for intimidation purposes during a royal audience or some such. Wait, what are you doing!"

"Like you said, it's a chair, and I broke my crutch. See? I just need to rest up for a few - " John parked his weary bones, heaving up his aching right leg with a hitch of his pants at the knee. Then the chair tipped backwards, and lit up. John froze.

"What the … "

Uh oh. McKay was mad at him.

"I just… I just sat down,' he replied with a brief nod. He'd done that once before, when he'd first been captured by those giant lizards way back when, only to elicit a sound thrashing resulting in a broken arm. He'd learned his lesson well that day.

"Don't move!" McKay tapped his earpiece. 'Elizabeth! You're gonno wanno to see this! Chair room! Get down here! Now!"

John must've dozed for a few. He heard the footfall of several personnel. He hoped he wasn't in too much trouble, and that maybe they wouldn't beat him too badly for this.

John absently rubbed his lower left arm, then reluctantly tore open one eyelid to see Elizabeth gazing down at him, an expression of barely controled excitement if not wonderment on her face. She was bouncing on her heels, looking like she had springs for feet, her hands fidgeting in her pants' pockets.

"John, I want you to think about where we are in the solar system."

oooOOOooo

"Same as driving, right? How hard can it be?"

John ran through pre-flight checks, and felt a thrill as the ship reacted to his gene. Piece of cake. The ship was like a mini-Atlantis he could take with him out there, though it wasn't quite the same. He missed her already, and she him.

"When did you learn to drive? Seriously?"

John tightened his grip on the controls.

The Horgo.

He wasn't prepared to elaborate on them. They could try to beat it out of him but now he'd fully healed up, they'd get nowhere unless he chose to spill. The only place the Horgo would ever resurface was in his quarters at night, when they came at him from the shadows, wielding their screwdrivers, twisting them in, gouging and bruising and slicing his flesh until he could barely even crawl back to the shelter of that panel overhang.

John shook his head to rid himself of the memory, and sighed.

They now had enough intelligence to exact a rescue. He'd set a steadily curling photo of their tango on the console for each of them to commit his face to memory. John glanced over at it from time to time. Good-looking kid, if a little ingenuous. He spied a ding or two on his face, but no more than might occur along the lines of childhood accidents, like falling out of a tree or off one of those Tau'ri skateboards he coveted; or maybe childhood illnesses, the ones that left a pock mark or two, and scars that only showed up in strong sunlight. The kid's bright smile radiated hope and promise.

John winced, and chewed his lip. Teyla's cousin, Ayden son of Fawrd of the Emmagan clan had been taken by the damn Horgo. He felt himself shake. They had to get to the kid quick. Ayden wasn't much older than John was when he'd gone missing, and no-one had come looking for him, though he'd prayed for months. That's when he'd wrongly surmised he was a freak. He even once believed his own kind was glad to have shaken him off. His awkward meeting with Dei'iv hadn't helped him dispel that inane thought. He hadn't once spotted another with wings even remotely as dark as his on his birth planet during his brief visit. So, there was a constant threat of in-house war, huh? All because of wing color? Great.

John vowed to leave no man behind, and had practically begged Elizabeth to finally let him go on a mission, flashing his best seal pup eyes at her. She relented, and even let him pick himself a team. Yep, things were definitely looking up.

"Y'know, Sheppard. What was it that made you change your mind? Ow! That smarts, Conan!"

John chuckled. Conan. The Barbarian. Great movie, though he himself couldn't get enough of Star Wars and Indiana Jones reruns. On a loop.

He glanced over at Rodney, his fat-mouthed astrophysicist copilot. The man was busy making a big deal of rolling his eyes, and rubbing the back of his head, his face flushed red. Sooner or later, Rodney would end up with a bald patch there as well as a receding hairline.

John shot a glare at Ronon, who merely glowered darkly at him. John held his glare, though he added a smirk, to which Ronon nodded once. Grimly. They could all communicate with just a look, something that had been denied him for two decades. Well, apart from Rodney. He needed words like he needed air to breathe, and he'd probably go mute if his hands ever ended up tied behind his back.

John thought about what made him change his mind. It was that bitter-sweet memory of his mother, thanks to Nurse Marie. He'd had an epiphany, realizing in that moment he wasn't a freak, never had been, though his wing color was rare, and that he'd once been loved unconditionally. Then when the map of the solar system lit up above his head, he just knew he could reach the stars after all. The universe was open to him, he just had to claim it. In turn, he opened up to the people around him, just a little, but he'd never acknowledged his time with the Horgo until today, and even that was a wrench. He wished he hadn't thought about wrenches. Those things easily broke small bones in fingers and toes.

John sighed once more.

"John is… in a unique position to lead us on rescue missions, especially one such as this," offered Teyla softly.

"We'll get him back, Teyla. Bring him home." John nodded sagely.

She offered a wan smile, then heaved in a deep breath, gathering herself, steeling herself for this mission.

"Okay, kids. Puddle Jumper One is good to go." he declared.

"Puddle Jumper? I thought we were going with Gate Ship?"

John raised a single eyebrow in response, and smiled as he remembered the seals of Mardol. He needed to go back there one day, find out whether the colony survived the Great Walrus War. He prayed Grrshilk and Gwala were alive and well. To them he was Rowgli; their Pool Hopper, their Puddle Jumper, but now he could visit there on his own terms as John Sheppard. As for revisiting his circus days, well, let's just say that he wished Skwillin and Karrowin all the best on their new venture as a brother/sister veterinary team, and leave it at that. But all that was for further down the line.

In the meantime, John had a galaxy to explore. As they burst through the space gate, he drew in a breath at the dark yet twinkling vista. It reminded him somehow of his own healed wings.

Whoa. Holy -

He'd reached the stars.

Those stars were brighter and more plentiful than he could ever have guessed while planetbound, like dashes of sugar over Rodney's raided midnight brownies, which was almost as great as that popcorn he and Teyla couldn't get enough of on team movie nights.

As they began their descent towards where they believed Ayden Fawrd was being held, he wished they could become invisible, sneak in and take out the bad guys by surprise. He had high hopes for the success of this his first mission. They were all fighting fit, trained, well-equipped and had the advantage of flight. The Horgo were land-bound, and only had knives and other non-ballistic weaponry, whereas they were armed with P90s and -

"I think we just cloaked!"

"We just did what now?"

"Cloaked! That means turned invisible, Sheppard."

"Cool!" John grinned broadly.

The jumper had reacted to his thoughts! He guessed it was too much to wish for a turkey sandwich to materialize, though he found himself checking for a dispenser somewhere to his left. There were limits to his newfound abilities, he guessed.

A ZPM wasn't about to materialize either, but there were many more missions in his future. Not just rescues, the search for ZPMs, but outreach, exploration, trade, discovery. Like those stars, John's future was as bright and as tangible as his past was now dim and distant, and he would throw himself into it with all his heart and soul. For right now, there was a kid to save. Maybe one day, he could even save himself. He was almost there.

oooOOOooo


End file.
